


take my hand

by blindbatalex



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Charlie/Jake, Everybody Lives, M/M, Trans Male Character, bruins ensemble really, but everyone else-, i went there, trans!Brad, well- i may have killed lucic offscreen and years ago, with a background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 10:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15794346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex
Summary: When Brad gets attacked by a magical creature whose bite carries a deadly poison he knows his days are numbered. King Patrice has other ideas.





	take my hand

**Author's Note:**

> This fic wouldn't have been possible without the cheerleading and beta services of emmareads AND everyone please look at the beautiful art she made for it!!! an additional thank you to everyone who listened to me whine and cheered me on over the past few weeks as well. <3 
> 
> World building for this fic is heavily influenced by BBC's Merlin.

 

The ejderna lets out a low-pitched screech and stomps her front legs on the ground, hard enough to create a small cloud of dirt around her claws.

She is magnificent with scales dark as the night and eyes luminous like two small moons. Two horn stubs dot her narrow forehead and remind Brad of the stories his father would tell: many a foolish human met their end because they thought the stubs could grant any wish.

Brad extends his hand, slowly, maintaining eye contact, lets the creature see the flame burning above his palm.

“You are not the only one with magic,” he says, echoing the friendly confidence he heard his father use countless times, “look.”

The creature follows his hand. She cocks her head to the side, regarding the flame, before turning to Brad again, not trusting him yet but _intrigued_.

Brad grins. A lifetime of no practice and he still hasn’t lost his touch.

Now he just needs to put a hand on the side of her face, rub gently at the scales under her eye and gain her trust before she decides to tear her way through their party. The rest of the knights are too busy fighting off the attack on the camp by a host of magical creatures and the last thing they need is a scared ejderna on the loose. One bite from those sharp pretty teeth and you might as well start planning your own funeral.

“Good girl.”

Brad takes a step closer. The ejderna ruffles her wings and in the moonlight Brad notices that there is a large tear running alongside the left one - no wonder the poor thing is so scared.

He knows something is wrong the moment his hand touches her skin.

The scales are cold under his fingers and it’s different from the usual soothing cold of dragonkin, clammy – diseased almost. He has a moment to notice that her pupils are blown up this close, before the ejderna neighs, shakes her head, and lunges forward.

Brad has no time to react and nowhere to maneuver.

The ejderna’s jaw hits him at full force and sends him flying to the ground. He scrambles to draw his sword and thrusts it up with as much force as he can manage as the creature runs past him. It catches her on the soft skin of her belly. Brad drives it up to the hilt, going on instinct more so than any rational thought; feels it tear through the flesh as the ejderna charges ahead.

*

A thump follows a pained yelp.

Brad hears metal clanking, a shout, an inhuman hiss. Somewhere Patrice is barking orders to regroup and retreat, but it’s distant, as if travelling through thick glass.

He should get up. He should help.

He stumbles onto his feet and charges forward only to hit something solid. It immediately closes around him on both sides, leaving no room to move or breathe. Brad frees a hand, an arm; elbows and claws without mercy.

“Brad- stop- ow, my eye!”

_Torey._

It’s Torey.

He stops thrashing. He lets Torey support his weight as he tries to regain his balance and scan their surroundings. When the world snaps back into place enough and he knows where Patrice needs them to be, he draws back.

“Middle of a battlefield is no place for impromptu hugs,” he tells Torey with a grin, gesturing for him to get going.

*

The first time he knows he is hurt is when Patrice asks him to throw a glowing orb to inspect the cave they found.

He mutters the spell and raises his arm, hand extended outward, and his left side just below the ribs burns as if someone set his skin on fire.

The knights are positioned in a crescent formation at the cave’s mouth, swords drawn against anything that might come charging out.

He looks down to his side while they look in and sure enough there is a tear in his chainmail running from the back to almost his abdomen. His fingers come back sticky with half-dried blood when he touches to investigate and even at the slight contact it _burns_.

The group sags with relief when only a few scared bats fly out of the cave. It’s the ideal size for them to spend the night, big enough to hold everyone comfortably but shallow and uninhabited. Someone - is it Jake? - asks if he can feel the magic yet and if they can go home.

“This is _a_ cave,” Brad explains, forcing his attention back to the here and now, “it has as much magic as Tuukka has grace.”

“I heard that,” comes a voice from the far end.

“You said the caves have magic, _this is a cave_ , it was a fair question to ask.” Jake says with his hands in the air.

He has a point in a way; it’s not Jake’s fault that the wizard-rulers of Old Kingdoms simply called their most sacred caves, _the Caves_ , prompting centuries of confusion as their magic faded from the world.

The thing is, the only time Brad was knocked down during the attack was when he failed to calm the ejderna.

And if he hurt himself when he fell, it would have been his right side, not his left.

*

They are lucky all in all. Anders has hurt his shoulder and there are cuts and bruises but everyone is accounted for and more or less alright. Except for, well, Brad.

To the corner of the cave, Jake and Charlie are settling a bet on whether scorpion-snakes actually exist. Brad told them that they do and Charlie is now a few gold coins poorer for his disbelief.

“Next time be smart like this kid,” Brad says, clapping Jake on the shoulders. “Bloodspiders, sword-wyverns, and bat-cats all exist. And they all want to eat you.”

Jake grins, despite - or probably _because of_ \- Charlie’s frown and Brad leaves them to return to his place by the entrance, where he can keep an eye on the night outside. He plays with his bracelet and quietly fortifies the spell giving his chainmail a wholesome unbroken look until Patrice joins him and sits with his legs close enough to touch.

If it is an exceptionally painful but run-of-the-mill laceration - and it still could be; there is no way of knowing for sure until he can sneak away from the camp and see for himself - he will undo the spell, Tuukka will clean the wound and shout at him for not coming forth sooner, and all will be well.

If it isn’t-

Patrice pokes him with his elbow, asks “bat-cats? Really Brad?”, his voice warm with his usual humor.

Brad lets his attention be drawn. He smiles back and embarks on a tale of how bat-cats are a force to be reckoned with and a menace to chicken and naughty children alike.

“You disbelieve them at your own peril,” Brad says when all Patrice has to offer is a skeptical ‘is that so?’ at the end of his story. He extends his hand and the ball of flame he conjures up turns into a tiny menacing housecat with the wings and fangs of a bat, charges at Patrice’s arm before it disappears into smoke.

That draws a laugh, short but beautiful like music. Patrice has been checking in on everyone since they set up camp in the cave. Someone needs to check in on him too.

*

By the time Brad has a chance to sneak away from the camp it’s almost dawn.

Shaken as they are it takes everyone a while to settle and fall asleep, and Tuukka insists on taking the first watch. Brad lies on the ground on his good side, watching, waiting, trying to keep his head clear. Tuukka being Tuukka doesn’t so much as blink. The wound stabs at his side every time he inhales.

He knows in a way, long before he slides outside and peels off the tunic sticking to his skin with dried blood in the pale light of the pre-dawn.

The wound isn’t deep but it’s red and angry in a way a regular fresh wound just isn’t. The skin surrounding it is hot and he almost hisses in pain when he touches the puncture at the center.

_A bite then, from an ejderna._

Brad closes his eyes.

The world is calm and quiet around him; only the sound of a flowing stream nearby and intermittent bird songs interrupt its silence. There is no sign of last night’s violence. There is no echo of the sickening churn in Brad’s guts and it’s hilarious really, if he had the energy to laugh, how many times he wished for this exact outcome, taking on opponents he knew were stronger than him, taunting them, waiting for the sword or the arrow that would finish what the Canadiens didn’t all those years ago.

He takes in deep breaths the way Zee taught him - _in and out, in and out_ \- lets the crisp fall air fill his lungs until his breath no longer stutters and he trusts himself to open his eyes again.

They are a day and a half’s ride away from the castle, but that is of no use now; Brad’s fate is already sealed. The caves are in a couple of hours distance, though Patrice wants to inspect the attack site first in the morning to see if they can glean any clues. He can’t remember how long it’s supposed to take for ejderna poison to kill you; looking at the wound it doesn’t seem like it will be _that_ long, but he should be able to hold on for long enough.

*

He spends some time picking out a fall leaf in good condition on his way back to the camp. In the end he settles on a large oak leaf, yellow-brown and its structure still intact, spins the stem between his fingers back and forth as he walks back. It’s not the most exquisite canvas but it will do just fine for his purposes.

*

He hands it to Charlie in the morning, suppressing a yawn, tells him to set its edge on fire once they are back in the castle and he is alone with Jake.

Charlie holds up the leaf above his head, his chipmunk face scrunched up from the sun, from Brad’s words, or both.

“Why are you giving me this?” he asks warily.

Brad just grins.

“Didn’t the scorpion-snake saga teach you the importance of having faith?”

Charlie doesn’t look convinced per se but he still puts the leaf carefully away in a place where it won’t get crumpled.

Good.

As long as he holds onto to it, the guilt and the grief should make sure he does as he is told once they are back.

Brad can just about imagine the deep shade of red his cheeks are going to take when the leaf bursts into a crude drawing of a cock and the words _bro you wanna fuck?_ floating in the air.

Not the most subtle beyond-the-grave matchmaking perhaps, but Brad has to do with what he has and he has very little time.

*

The only evidence of the attack are the marks of the struggle left behind. The foliage is singed in places and destroyed in others. Remains of their camp lie scattered on the ground; some of the tools bent and broken beyond use. There are no bodies, no blood, no sign or residual magic to suggest the slain beasts have been carried away.

They set to work clearing the evidence. Brad cleans the site of the marks on the ground with magic while the others collect what can still be of use and bury the rest.

He tries to remember if that is how it is supposed to be, whether beings of old magic are just supposed to disappear when they die, but all he has is the memory of his dad letting him hold a scorpion-snake in his hand. _It’s a baby just like you, his dad says, his voice like laughter, watch out for the pincers_. His mind becomes muddled whenever he is running on little rest; the present disappears in the past and it’s worse today. He would love to blame it all on the poison spreading through his body.

“Something on your mind?” Patrice asks, when they are almost done, surveying the clearing alongside Brad.

When Brad turns to look there is a halo around Patrice’s head. The morning light filters in through the trees, catches on fire around the edges of his hair. His kind hazel eyes have taken on that shade that Brad has always adored.

“Something feels off,” Brad replies, thinking back to the clammy scales of the ejderna under his hand, her sickly eyes. It’s too cold out in the open; a chill seems intent on working into his bones, but at the same time he is sweating. The whole thing leaves a bad taste in his mouth and that he can’t pinpoint what it is exactly makes him uneasy.

Patrice nods and tells him they will get to the bottom of it, that kingly determination ringing clear in his voice, however long it takes.

“Let’s hope it’s not _that_ long,” Brad huffs out, a little too quickly, his laugh a little too bitter.

*

Throughout the ride to the caves his mind continues to be pulled in this direction and that, like a branch caught in the waves.

They know why they have come here. The caves are the heartland of magic. Stories say it was here magic was born just after the world came to be; it was here it touched the first wizards and folded them into itself until they were parts of the same whole, limbs of a single body. It is here where magic has always been at its strongest.

So, they thought back in the castle, if there was an answer to why the fuck half the crops in the Kingdom were dead and why beasts no one has laid an eye on in a decade were roaming free on its lands, this would be an excellent place to look. Krej theorized that a burst of spontaneous magic could have called them forth, Anton backed it up to say there were instances of it in the past, and here they are on their way with a dusty map Anton dug up from the archives to check it out.

The thing is though, then what?

If they are right and Brad can detect a fresh signature who is left to round up the beasts let alone counteract the pestilence when its source is the oldest and most primal kind of magic? Krej and Zee, the only other two wizards in the service of the King, never had experience with such beings. No one he knows who is still alive has, and fat load of good experience did for Brad.

If they are wrong and find nothing, they have nothing and one fewer wizard to work out a solution while the towns and their people suffer.

The first time Brad was brought in front of King Julien he was so surprised. His brother used to say, when Brad sneaked out of bed and listened to him talking with their father late at night, that a kingdom that failed to look after its subjects was sick and ought to die. It made such an impression on him that even at thirteen he had half expected a king with decaying skin exposing bone and dark hollows where his eyes were supposed to be.

When Brad told Patrice the story a couple of years later Patrice had laughed at first but life had drained out of his face when he asked Brad why he would think that.

Brad had been ready to snap at him, a tide of anger already rising in his chest; he had no use for pity or misplaced guilt. That wasn’t it though; it was Patrice’s Kingdom who had failed to protect, and therefore his responsibility, never mind he had no control over border policy and little say in the court back then. Brad had regretted telling him the truth ever since.

“You know the world has gone haywire when Brad Marchand gets lost in his own head,” Torey chirps from the side, brings Brad crashing back into the present.

“It’s called being thoughtful,” Brad retorts, “you should try it sometime.”

Tuukka complains about how much he was enjoying his peace of mind and Patrice turns to him, a quick ‘are you okay?’ tucked into his smile.

Brad wishes he knew how to say _no_.

*

For Pasta Brad fills a small vial with clear water from a stream and traps sunlight inside it with a spell before they venture into the first cave.

This one was once known as the baker’s cave. The caves took on superstitions as the magic of the wizard-rulers waxed and waned and the mighty kingdoms they built started to fall. Now even most of that is forgotten, save for an overgrown sign directing the way to a cave known this power or that, but bakers from all over the country would flock here and leave strings made of glazed dough against the walls to ensure their bread always passed muster.

“Does it explode?” Pasta asks, holding the vial at an arm’s length and turning it over in his hand. It bathes the cavernous space in a soft whitish yellow, a contrast to their torches, and reflects off of the stalagmites and the stonified dough strings left here and there.

“For one I told you the caves demand respect; I would never. For two it’s so that you can stop tripping at night and waking everyone with your yelps.”

It’s true. Pasta has the worst night vision of anyone Brad has seen, and a chipped tooth to show for it.

Pasta grins. It reaches all the way to his eyes, lights up his face and the cave walls around them. He loves the gift as he loves everything else around him, openly and with his whole heart.

“Well that and, you are a ray of sunshine,” Brad admits, smiling past the pain. He is young and he has so much ahead of him. Pink dusts Pasta’s cheeks and Brad wishes he could be here to see everything he will become.

In retrospect he should have anticipated the chirps that earns given the company he is with, ancient holy grounds or not.

“It’s a leaf when it comes to me and liquid sunshine when it comes to Pasta. Tell him he is picking favorites Patrice.”

“As if he listens to me.”

“Since when do you go around giving gifts? Where is my gift?”

“Trust me you don’t want a gift from Brad, it will explode the moment we step outside.”

Brad shakes his head. He will give Torey his dagger and has his mom’s lucky dragon tooth for Tuukka, not that it brought him much luck this time around.

He ignores the rest of the jibes in favor of telling Patrice he _always_ listens to him. He doesn’t know what he will get Patrice, nothing feels right enough, though he is running out of time.

“When that knight from Lightning Bay said anything went in the duel you licked him,” Patrice reminds, levelling him with a look, but the corners of his lips are fighting off a smile and his eyes are soft. “I told you to not to lick him.”

There Patrice has a point. He did tell Brad licking did not constitute an appropriate duel strategy but the rules were silent on the subject - they were _before_ Brad’s duel anyway.

Brad corrects himself to say he listens to Patrice when it matters and then because he was too busy looking at Patrice he doesn’t see where the floor is uneven, slips, and barely catches himself in time. The wound still stabs him at the sudden motion, sharp and without mercy, and it takes everything he has to not to fall to his knees until the worst of it passes.

When he trusts himself to speak again he tells the group they should move onto the next cave because there is nothing here.

*

The last person who used their map was kind enough - or if you ask Anton had little enough respect for the archive collections - to annotate the margins with where they felt magic at its strongest. Visiting every single cave in the vast network would take time not even the members of the group who aren’t currently dying have and since most of magic has faded away by now anyway they thought they would stick to the marked ones in their expedition.

In a kinder world the map would have marked the cave one over instead of this next one. A cave whose special power is curing nail fungus is both practical and harmless. Neither can be said of one that is supposed to make your love notice you if you bring a garment of theirs and tie it around a stalagmite.

The stalagmites themselves are barely visible; decades of garments cover them from top to bottom, their color long gone, fabric once bright now frayed and falling apart.

Patrice smiles a diplomatic smile at him, shoulders drawn back, asks if he can feel anything here.

Brad can feel the fever sinking its hooks deeper and deeper into his skin and the taste of metal in his mouth. He can feel the ridiculous tension between Jake and Charlie, on hyperdrive ever since they stepped inside, in the way they moved to the opposite ends of the group and are now stealing glances at each other when they think the other isn’t looking only to look away when they are caught.

If he listens close enough he can feel the afternoon sun on his skin in the town square on a summer’s day. All it takes to descend the castle into chaos is a love spell by a visiting wizard gone wrong and Patrice’s lips are chapped against his own yet perfect, everything he dreamt of and more.

But when it comes to magic there is only an echo from a time long gone same as the first cave- nothing but whispers, and a faint memory carved into the damp walls.

*

There is nothing in the next cave either, or the one after that, except dripstones, an underwater stream and a haunting sense of finality. The caves are supposed to be the heart of magic, and only echoes of it remain, only a eulogy.

 _A eulogy for us both_ , Brad thinks with something like melancholy.

It’s becoming harder to walk and harder to breathe; he doesn’t think he will be able to keep his predicament to himself for much longer.

*

In the end they do make it through all possible hot spots on the map until only one cave remains. Brad asks the rest of the group to wait outside and ventures in through the narrow opening on his own, trying not to wince at every step.

He has considered coming here of his own will before; it’s where wizards of old used to go to get glimpses of the future, seek answers; a cave it was said was made of magic itself. No one who didn’t have the gift dared to approach it.

Crystals of many sizes and colors cover the walls, reflect and bend under the light of his torch. A stream whispers words almost human where he can’t see.

In a crystal to his left Patrice enters his chambers. The rigid frown set on his brow melts when he sees Brad. He walks straight to the bed, a smile already blossoming on his lips. To his right bits and pieces of onions fly through the air, some catching on fire. His mom tuts at him to please use his _hands_ to chop.

Suddenly his decision not to come here earlier seems particularly wise.

A tendril of magic reaches out from the thin stone fingers of the helictites; licks at Brad’s face.

Brad stills and lets it; he came seeking magic and here it is. Its touch is gentle but prickly and it certainly doesn’t care much for personal space.

It asks without words and without sound if Brad came to see his future.

Great, Brad thinks, old magic is alive and well and apparently it has quite the sense of humor.

(Except it isn’t, not really - what reaches out to him feels like a remainder, a small piece meandering here when everyone else has left.)

 _Death_ , the cave coos with delight, _dying, dead_ , death.

He watches the ejderna he hit stumble and collapse, its eyes glazed with a grotesque finality; a plant wilts, its leaves droop with lack of water as it shrivels and dies. Krej looks desolate, alone by a vault after the funeral-goers have paid their respects and left and Patrice-

On the clear surface of the pool Patrice is dressed in the royal black garbs of mourning, the crown heavy on his head. His jaw is set and the red rims of his eyes speak to a grief too heavy for words. But he is gray in the vision, crevices run across his forehead and line his cheeks.

“The beasts,” Brad asks even as he watches a tear roll down old Patrice’s cheek. His voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. “Where did they come from?”

The air feels liquid around him, too thick to move through. His heart is beating in his ears, but it’s slow, infinitely slower than what he knows his feverish pulse to be, as each beat stretches and stretches.

 _Beasts_! the walls echo back, flippant as you please.

Brad wonders what’s the worst that can happen if he flips off the cave of crystals, given the fact that he is already currently dying but another vision catches his eye before he has the chance to make up his mind.

This time it’s home.

They are on the singing sands, a narrow strip of beach caught between a gray sea and a steep rocky shoulder that disappears completely in high tide. It is absolutely forbidden by their parents and absolutely their favorite place to go. “You know Lucy,” Josh tells him with a smug grin as they run from the waves licking the shore only to run back in when they retract. “If you give me your dragon tooth I can stop the tide from rolling in and we can keep playing here forever.”

“Bullshit,” Brad says, though that was not his name then, splashes water at Josh without mercy. “No one is that strong,”

Brad tears his eyes from the crystal by force. He can feel tears stinging against his eyelids and there is a crushing weight on his chest.

“Why is there a pestilence on the Kingdom?” he asks again, words choking and sputtering their way past the knot in his throat. Somewhere along the way the cave has started to spin.

The only answer he gets is his labored breath and the sound of water dripping, far away.

*

Through the blinding light he sees figures stand up as he staggers out of the cave, a hand on the wall for support. It was bright that day too, _too warm for fall_ , his mom said in the morning shielding her eyes against a glaring sun suspended in a cloudless sky. One figure comes into focus as Patrice as he quickly closes the distance between them. He catches Brad when Brad all but collapses against him with a choked off sob.

The bandits laugh and laugh, the sound monstrous and deafening in what was once their home. “It’s alright,” Patrice tells him, “you are alright. Breathe with me, Brad.”

Brad listens.

He always listens to Patrice when it matters. He focuses on the steady beat of Patrice’s heart to tear himself away from the past, matches his breathing to Patrice’s until the world clicks back into place.

*

“No wonder the Old Kingdoms sucked,” Brad says a little weakly from where he is half-lying, half-sitting in Patrice’s arms when he trusts himself to speak again. He needs to sit up but not yet. “Their magic is _such_ a jerk, and it’s me saying that.”

Patrice hums in agreement. He is solid against Brad, grounding in a way he can’t put to words, and the hand that brushes hair away from his forehead feels incredible.

Except-

Patrice takes his hand away and rubs his fingers against his palm.

“Why is my hand wet when I can’t see any sweat on your face or hair?” he asks, puzzled.

Shit. Brad has completely forgotten about that. The bracelet manipulates appearance, not physical composition of its object.

“I-” he starts, hoping to come up with an explanation on the fly. Tuukka doesn’t let him finish when he pokes Brad below the ribs on his left side with no warning. It is as gentle as a poke can go but sends Brad doubling down on himself and hissing in pain.

“I thought you were favoring your right side,” Tuukka observes, matter-of-fact and too smart for his own good. “Care to share what you are hiding under that nifty bracelet of yours Marchy?”

“My boobs?” Brad deadpans in one last heroic effort but it doesn’t so much as draw a half-smile from Tuukka, Patrice is frowning, and six other pairs of eyes fix him to the spot and demand an explanation.

Very well then.

There is little point in keeping it from them any further anyway; it’s not like there is anything left to inspect here or he any energy to carry on.

This is how it ends.

*

“You walked up and touched the ejderna?” Patrice asks, picking up the wrong detail, the hurt in his voice impossible to miss.

_No, not like that._

“That’s how you calm them. They aren’t vicious animals, not on their own,” Brad explains. He needs Patrice to understand that he wasn’t being reckless, hasn’t been in a long while. “Not unless someone is manipulating them for their own ends.”

He pauses at the end and lets the implications sink in. It’s only a conjecture but one that makes more sense the more he thinks about it. There is no fresh magical signature in the caves, and the vision of the ejderna’s death keeps playing in his head. She was sick and it’s not as if beings of magic contract the flu or rabies.

“I thought there was no one left who could channel enough magic to pull off such a feat.” Patrice says carefully after a while.

Brad thought so too. Maybe it’s time they considered the possibility that they were wrong.

A chill rocks his body. He hugs himself tight and closes his eyes. When Patrice pulls him in, he goes willingly, lets the world narrow to Patrice’s warmth and presence around him until nothing else remains.

*

Conversation filters back in; sounds morph into words. He hears Tuukka, Adam and Torey, Pasta. They seem to be in the middle of a lively discussion. Fingers are still carding through his hair which is nice.

“Couldn’t Krej and Zee fix him if he held on just a little longer? Jake got bit by a snake the other day, his foot swelled to the size of a melon and he was just fine after they worked their magic.” Charlie asks, his voice just a little broken. They haven’t lost anyone on an expedition for years, not since Milan.

Tuukka clicks his tongue, says even if they got him to the castle on time Brad would need two lives and a miracle to survive any attempt to remove this kind of poison.

That inspires the idea of soul magic, this time by voiced by Jake. Torey proposes they sacrifice Quaider’s immortal soul to the gods in Brad’s place, Quaider throws something at him which lands with a dull _thud_ , and Pasta suggests they link Brad with someone so he can draw from their energy and survive.

Thinking about it, that would be nice. It would also be nice if there was no pestilence raging on the kingdom and it rained mead. It would be nice if he could live in his kinder dreams, his hometown the way he remembers it from his childhood, before the screams and the smell of burning flesh, before the Canadiens, a house on a cliff overlooking a gray sea. He would teach Patrice how to fish and their house would always carry the smell of salt.

Brad likes those mornings - the tidal pools of imagination before it all recedes into daylight, Patrice laughing with his head thrown back, a piece of sea foam caught in his hair.

Pasta continues, gaining more confidence as he speaks. Once he heard Krej talk, his voice gone real quiet the way it does when he had too much to drink, about how he could have saved Milan if he was with them that day. There was a way to tie two souls together where one could draw strength from the other when its own life energy flailed.

“Foot binding? It was called something like that.”

Brad almost bursts out laughing at that; it’s been a while since any kingdom had a formal curriculum on magic and it shows. Still, magic, especially ancient magic like that is more about intention than anything else; you could probably bind two people by the foot and make it work.

It raises some murmurs from the group; a couple others have heard of it too, some from Krej and others from dusty books in the archives. Someone, bless his heart, corrects it to _hand-binding_ ; another - Ryan - wonders if there is anyone who is both in love enough and mad enough to chain themselves to Brad for eternity.

“How would it work?”

Brad does a double take at the question. His head is still swimming even with his eyes closed and he is very close to throwing up but he knows that voice, he could be dead and he would still know that voice, and did Patrice just-

“Well, I think you just tie the two people’s hands together with a white cloth, mutter a spell, they kiss and that’s it,” Pasta answers before his tone turns diplomatic in a way Brad didn’t know he was capable of. “Ryan has a point though sire- Krej said it would only work with him because he, you know-”

 _loved Milan more than life itself_ goes unsaid.

Patrice doesn’t miss a beat; no - he just asks if they have a white cloth, and Brad decides that if his ears haven’t gone off and betrayed him completely, then perhaps Patrice is joking. Brad is out as far as they know and it’s good to improve team morale when one of their own is about to kick the bucket.

It’s not what this is though, not with the quiet hope that breaks through Patrice’s voice that is impossible to miss.

Brad opens his eyes.

He can’t do this to anyone let alone to Patrice.

*

“Sorry to spoil the party but it won’t work.”

His own voice sounds strange to his ears, rusty, and he can feel eight pairs of eyes turn to him in an instant. It would be nice if his mouth didn’t taste like a small animal died in it or if he could prop himself up for better leverage.

“ _Brad_.”

Patrice exhales the word as if it’s a prayer. Relief and heartbreak chase each other across his royal features and his eyelashes look even prettier from this angle in the light of the campfire. If Torey lay on Patrice’s lap like this too he wouldn’t have started a whole argument about how there is no such thing as ‘royal eyelashes’ in the tavern that somehow turned into a screaming match and got them banned for a month.

Not that anyone else should get to lie on Patrice’s lap like this.

Actually, no, other people should definitely get to lie on the King’s lap, that is literally what Brad is going for here.

Just- not Torey.

“Hand-binding isn’t some brotherly bond to save your favorite injured knight in his time of need,” Brad continues, ignoring the collective concern emanating from the group. “We are talking about _marriage_ here and not a formality one at that either.”

It’s true. Hand-binding is a ritual even practicers of old magic used to approach with care; it fuses your immortal soul to someone else’s, binds you in this life and the next. It’s irreversible, and it’s punitive. You flirt with let alone sleep with someone else and the bond punishes you; you hurt each other and it punishes you; you so much as put physical distance in between beyond a couple of miles and it punishes you. Candidates would prepare for years back in the day; practice conflict resolution until they clicked as parts of a single whole before the decision to go through with it was made.

Patrice listens to him without interrupting, gives him water when Brad’s throat gets too parched to speak.

Unfortunately when Brad finishes he takes Brad’s hand, flashes his most gorgeous smile, and asks Brad if, in that case, he will marry him, completely missing Brad’s point.

“Is this a plot against your uncle? Do you want Lord Cassidy dead?” Brad asks automatically, too dumbstruck to comprehend the question.

Perhaps he is hallucinating; perhaps the fever progressed to a stage where his wildest dreams are manifesting themselves to him as reality. Next thing he knows it will actually start raining mead and Patrice will strip out of his armor, lean in and whisper _fuck me Marchy_ against his ear. There are, he supposes, worst ways to die.

The sky remains cloudless however and Patrice says-

“He has been trying to marry me off for ages. He will be grateful I finally listened,” fingers still carding through Brad’s hair.

By the gods above he is serious and this is bad.

Brad pats his hand away and sits up despite the pain it causes. If he has to fight Patrice to literal death to cure him of this ridiculous idea he got into his head he can’t let Patrice yield such a powerful weapon against him.

“He has been trying to marry you off to women,” he reminds from his new and improved vantage point. “To sensible women from good families who don’t have magic and haven’t gotten a clause added to the duel rulebook after themselves.”

On the bright side the conspiracy theorists who are convinced that the Bruins’ tolerance of magic will lead to a coup by wizards _would_ have a field day when they found out, if that’s the angle Patrice is going with.

“If only I was oh you know, _the King_ and had more power than my uncle and all the rest of my subjects combined.” Patrice shoots back without missing a single beat.

“I thought you only considered marrying blondes. Wasn’t that why you turned down Lady Katherine?”

Patrice had actually done that. He could find no fault with Lady Katherine, who was kind and charming and beat Tuukka in a battle of wits, and he had told his uncle with a straight face that he could not spend his life with a brunette.

Brad had always thought- Well he knew Patrice felt something for him too buried under layers of duty and responsibility and good sense, something they decided to keep tucked away long ago by worldless agreement but-

“We will bleach your hair,” comes the reply, complete with raised eyebrows and a gaze that does not falter.

 _He will marry me and bleach my hair_ , Brad echoes in his mind. He has a sense that his mouth is hanging open and he has no response, only a warmth in his chest that is tearing him apart by how much he wants to chase it and claim it as his own.

If he had a little more presence of mind he would note this occasion as the first time since he lost Josh someone managed to outchirp him.

*

“Help me out here,” Brad says looking at the rest of the knights when he remembers their presence. Surely one of them must see why this is a terrible idea but seven pairs of eyes suddenly get lost examining the intricacies of the bushes and the dirt floor around them. Except Ryan, who says-

“I mean technically you _could_ be the queen, since you are, you know-”

Tuukka elbows him in the ribs hard enough to send him coughing before he can finish, potentially creating more work for himself if Ryan ends up with a bruised rib.

Kids. It always takes them a couple of tries to get it right, although it is actually helpful this once.

“I can’t be your queen,” Brad tells Patrice. There are few things he wouldn’t do for this man but this is one of them. He hoped Patrice knew him well enough to know that.

“I am not asking you to,” comes the reply, “I hoped you knew me well enough to know that. I just-” Patrice stops. He huffs out a breath and lets his eyes trail around their camp as he tries to find the right words.

“Do you remember the time you almost got yourself killed in the annual tournament?” he asks in the end, his voice almost a whisper.

Brad huffs out too; he doesn’t know where Patrice is going with this and he is losing what little fight he has left by the minute when he knows he mustn’t - but of course he remembers.

It was one of the few times he saw Patrice livid with rage. Patrice was still the prince then and Brad was woozy with the blows he had taken to his head, sitting on the cot in the medical tent.

“Do you have any idea how humiliating it was, not just for me but for the Kingdom,” Patrice had shouted, a vein popping in his neck and the light he let out behind him was near blinding. Brad had stared, still not entirely convinced that Patrice just interrupted a match-up to beg Brad’s opponent to spare his life in front of his father the entire castle and visiting royalty, when nothing in the rules said he should and Brad had passed up on multiple invites to concede defeat.

“I would hear rumors for years afterwards. People thought I was weak, even unfit to lead - some still do - because I begged a lowly enemy knight acting within the rules of the duel to spare the life of one of my own, after he passed up on every chance to admit defeat.”

“I never once regretted it.” Patrice finishes, with a quiet smile. “And I would be honored now if you took my hand and chose to live.”

Brad looks at him from where he is sitting with his back against the tree. A knot is rising up in his chest and making it very difficult to breathe. The vision he saw in the cave plays in his mind, how old and gray Patrice was, decades into the future. The smile on his face as he walked to the bed.

As a last gasp effort he tells Patrice that if Krej and Zee fail and he dies it would kill Patrice alongside him, and if it doesn’t it will feel as if half of Patrice died with Brad anyway.

Patrice smiles. There are tears in his eyes too. “It’s already going to feel that way if I let you die,” he says quietly, his voice catching in the end and there is nothing Brad can say to that, no objection left that he can offer.

*

As Pasta said, the ingredients for the ritual are surprisingly simple: just some cloth to tie their hands, the runes Brad draws on them, and a herb or two readily found in Tuukka’s bag.

Patrice sits with him as Torey and Tuukka gather them quickly, whispers a quiet _thank you_ when there is no one in earshot.

That day, the day of the tournament, when Brad told him he had many capable knights and the loss of one would have meant nothing, Patrice had started with “you-” his voice thunderous, before it dissolved into something quieter in a breath. “You kept vigil by my bed for two days without so much as dozing off when I was sick, Brad.”

Brad tried to tell him it was different, he was well- someone Brad would follow to the ends of the earth, and Brad was Brad.

“You think-?” Patrice had said before he thundered out of the tent with a “by the gods above you are impossible.”

“Hold up,” Brad says now when Tuukka is about to tie the cloth around their hands.

Patrice draws back enough to give him space but Brad can tell it’s only years of practice that keeps him from frowning as he asks what is wrong.

“If you are going to ask for someone’s hand-” Brad says with his most serious face, “it’s very rude not to offer a proper gift first. I am thinking the finest blade in the armory. And you have to steal it for me.”

Patrice rolls his eyes, reminds Brad that he is still dying and they really don’t have time for this.

“But,” he adds as Tuukka ties the cloth around their hands, “I _will_ steal you the finest blade in the armory the moment we are back. Anything for my husband.”

There is only one thing Brad can do at that point, with Patrice’s hand locked in his and his perfect face so close to his own and that is to lean forward and crush their lips together. They feel even better than he remembers somehow and the bond doesn’t even need the words to click into place.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for making it all the way to the end! Truth be told I may write more of this story, I have most of the plot, I know who/what is responsible for the attacks but I didn't want to post it as a WIP because getting this right took so much out of me in terms of time and emotional energy. I don't think I can keep going without significant interest-slash-cheerleading so definitely tell me if this is something you liked and would like to see more of.
> 
> There is a Jake/Charlie ficlet in the works as well, where they get back to the castle and decide to "open" Brad's gift so be on the lookout.
> 
> I am on tumblr @blindbatalex and I love it when people want to come talk to me about fic, the bruins, and especially bergy/marchy i.e. my true otp.


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